


The Rose Tower

by aibari



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (elias is here too but only briefly), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - No Magnus Institute, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Two AUs for the price of one!, local flora has too many eyes, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibari/pseuds/aibari
Summary: Once upon a time, there lived a man in a villageat the edge of a deep, dark wood.There were tales about the village, and most of them were false.There were tales about the wood, and most of them were true.AU. Martin Blackwood, tea shop owner, finds a very special book.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 44
Kudos: 258





	The Rose Tower

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this one for [Princess_Aleera's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera) birthday, but I didn't manage to finish it on time. Then I sat down with it this weekend and vomited out four thousand words. This is not exactly polished, but it was a lot of fun to put together, so I'm putting it up pretty much as-is. Hope you like it!

There was a book on the table.

Martin couldn’t remember putting it there. Couldn’t remember getting it at all, really. He’d been to the library after closing up the shop yesterday, picking through the poetry section and taking home a couple of newer collections.

This was definitely, emphatically not one of those.

It was thick, a real doorstop of a book, and bound in cream-coloured leather. There was no title on the front page; instead, the lower half of it was crowded over with roses. The lines were delicate and silver.

Martin frowned at it from the doorway.

Then he went to make some tea.

-

He returned armed with a cup of Darjeeling (a second flush FTGBOP blend they’d gotten in last week) and sat down at the table. The chair gave a squeaky complaint as he did so, but it had been doing that since the day he bought it five years ago, so that was alright.

He opened the book.

It smelled of dust and old paper and something _… else,_ something faint and sweet and almost like perfume. Martin gingerly touched the paper of the front page. It was thick and slightly rough under his fingers. He felt as though he might get a papercut just from touching it.

There was still no title on the front page, but there was a book plate, which read:

FROM THE LIBRARY OF JURGEN LEITNER

Martin frowned at it.

Right.

Well, he had nothing better on at the moment. The shop was closed, there was nothing good on the telly, and he wasn’t in the mood for poetry.

He flipped the page over, and was faced with an index, a long list of titles that seemed like fairy tales. He’d never heard of any of these, though. Curious, he turned to the next page.

 _THE ROSE TOWER_ , it read, and,

_Once upon a time, there lived a man in a village at the edge of a deep, dark wood._

_There were tales about the village, and most of them were false._

_There were tales about the wood, and most of them were true._

_The man’s name was Martin Blackwood_

“What?” said Martin. The letters on the page didn’t change. The words didn’t rearrange themselves into anything that did not include the words “Martin Blackwood”; his name stayed there on the paper, fifteen letters in black ink that refused to be anything else.

He went to turn the page, half hoping it would be some kind of Tim Stoker-brand prank, and found that his hands wouldn’t move.

 _He_ couldn’t move. When he tried to lean back, his back stayed slightly hunched over the text. His knees refused to unbend, to push him off the chair he was sitting in.

 _It’s got you now_ , he thought, but it didn’t feel exactly like it had come from him. _It’s got its hooks in you._

As he watched, the words on the page began to bead over with black ink.

Then, slowly, they began to bleed in earnest, until the ink was pouring off the paper and spilling over the desk onto his trousers, onto the floor.

Martin couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He couldn’t even blink.

The book spilled ink and – and wet petals, sticking to the skin of his hands and wrists and stomach – bursting open at the seams with a trickle and a torrent and a flood – and vines, thick and thorny, snaking around his wrists like braided rope, pulling him down and down and in, and the ink was everywhere, now, filling his mouth and nose and ears – – –

**THE ROSE TOWER**

Once upon a time, there lived a man in a village

at the edge of a deep, dark wood.

There were tales about the village, and most of them were false.

There were tales about the wood, and most of them were true.

The man’s name was Martin Blackwood, and he lived

with his mother in a small cottage at the edge of the village.

They were poor, but they made their living by selling herbs

from the wood and tea made from dried leaves,

and they were almost happy.

One winter, Mother Blackwood became gravely ill.

Martin worked himself to the bone to afford her medicine,

but nothing seemed to make her better.

Every week, Martin would go further into the woods.

Every week, he would sell more than he could afford

and less than he wished, until, finally, the money ran out.

“Dear,” said Mother Blackwood. “I have heard tales

of a tall tower in the deepest depths of the wood. It is said

it holds a hundred riches, each worth more than any man

could hope to earn for a year’s hard work. If we cannot

make ends meet by your foraging, perhaps this will save us.”

Her eyes were just as hard as he remembered them,

but there was a cruelty in them that was different

than their usual, sad indifference.

“Of course,” said Martin.

The words sat strangely in his mouth.

He packed his knapsack and set out into the wood.

The trees were bare and dark. The snow was bright

and white as freshly shorn wool.

He walked for days. At night, he slept in a makeshift tent,

listening to the sounds of the forest.

Every morning, he made tea over the fire.

One cup, he drank himself.

Another he poured out as an offering.

There were tales about the wood, after all,

and most of them were true.

One day, he came to a clearing,

and in the clearing, there was a tower.

It was taller than tall and painted white,

and thick vines of roses wound their way around it.

When Martin moved closer, the flowers

turned their heads toward him as one.

At the centre of each was an eye.

“ _What?_ ” Martin said,

because _what the hell was happening?_

and the act of asking felt like a line snapping,

a string breaking from a touch of tension. He felt

suddenly, painfully aware of his own body, the weight

of his flesh where gravity pulled at him, the snow melting

into his socks through a weak seam on his trouser leg, the hot itch

of wool at his throat, the cold stab of winter air in his lungs –

“This isn’t right,” he told himself, but his thoughts felt fuzzy,

and he couldn’t remember –

The tower had no doors, but far above, there were windows.

There was nothing for it. He grabbed hold of a sturdy vine

“Wait, no, _hang on_ –”

and began to climb.

He couldn’t make himself stop.

The thorns on the vines bit down

deep into the flesh of his palms and tore

the fabric of his cloak, but

his hands were moving without his say-so,

pulling and grasping and clinging,

and the ground moved farther and farther away

beneath him.

The vines tore his hands bloody, but he persisted.

He climbed and climbed until he reached an open window,

and then pulled himself up over the window ledge.

He landed on the floor of the room inside with a heavy thud,

palms and arms and elbows stinging.

Dust rose up around him with the impact. He inhaled some of it,

and it coated his tongue with the taste of dry, old neglect.

He coughed into the crook of his elbow

and looked around to take in the room he had ended up in.

The room was filled from wall to wall with bookshelves,

and the bookshelves were filled with books,

their leather spines lined with silver and gold.

The sight left Martin a little breathless.

There were books at the local library, of course.

He _liked_ the library; he’d been there yesterday

to pick up some more poetry, because poetry

collections were always too expensive to buy new,

and they’d had loads of new books in, but –

None of the books there had been quite like these.

They looked unique, and expensive, and _romantic_

in the way nothing at his local library could ever hope to match.

Martin pushed himself off the floor.

His palms and arms were stinging.

His face was wet from a cut on his cheek.

“ _Right_ ,” he said.

“This is a fairy tale, isn’t it?” he told himself.

“With the, with the woods and climbing the tower and the, the _creepy_ roses.”

He frowned.

The sun outside the window was a pale paper disc

against the brutal blue of the sky,

but the light inside the room was different.

Slower and richer, somehow,

despite the lack of any visible light source.

Martin’s mind still felt foggy, but slowly, carefully,

he pieced his thoughts back together.

He remembered –

He remembered –

There was the library visit yesterday and today

he’d opened the shop like he usually did,

he’d sold some tea to the usual suspects

and a couple of new ones,

he’d closed up shop and gone home and

he’d found a book on his living room table.

“That’s it,” he said. That pale cream cover with the silver lines,

and then the ink –

Anyway. No point in dwelling on the details of _that_.

There was a large doorway

hewn into the stone wall at the end of the room.

Beyond it was a spiral staircase,

twisting a far way up and a far way down.

Yet more roses wound their way

around its railings.

Every single one of them was looking at him.

Martin shuddered.

“That’s still creepy, you know,” he told them.

“I know you can’t help it

but do you have to be _watching me_ all the time? Don’t you _blink?_

You’d think you’d all dry out.”

The roses didn’t reply, obviously.

The stairwell was quiet

except for the rustling of petals and leaves.

Martin ascended the stairs.

The words pulled at him like a hook

at the end of a fishing wire, and he had no choice

but to start climbing again.

“Less thorny this way, I guess,” he murmured.

He climbed to the topmost floor of the tower.

The room he found himself in was circular, and occupied only

by a fireplace and a single bed. The fire was lit, and the flames were merry.

A man lay on the bed, sleeping.

Except the man wasn’t sleeping; he was sitting upright

and reading another expensive-looking book.

Martin moved closer.

The man’s dark hair splayed across the pillows like a river.

His mouth was soft and gentle in sleep.

He was the most beautiful man Martin had ever seen.

But that was wrong, too.

The man was beautiful, sure –

Martin felt himself blush as he thought so –

but his hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and he was scowling.

“Um,” Martin said.

The man looked up through his square, thick-rimmed glasses,

and scowled harder.

“Oh, _fantastic,”_ he muttered,

as though he had experienced nothing less fantastic in his whole life.

“This again.”

A lightbulb turned on in Martin’s brain.

The tower, and the thorny roses, and the bloke on the bed –

 _Oh no_.

“This is a Sleeping Beauty story, isn’t it,” he said,

out loud and not entirely intentionally.

The man’s eyes went wide.

They were dark brown, Martin realised, and where the light hit them,

they lit up like a forest pond, all liquid and gold.

“You’re different than the others,” said the man.

His voice was a little hoarse, a little rusty,

as though he hadn’t been talking much for a long time.

Which made sense, Martin supposed.

Big, fuck-off tower, and all that.

“The others?” he asked, stupidly.

The man blinked at him. His lashes were very long.

“Do you, ah, you _do_ know what’s going on here?” he asked, fidgeting,

fingers moving restlessly against the side of the book he was reading

as though he couldn’t decide whether or not to turn the page.

“We’re trapped in a book and it’s forcing us

to play out a fairy tale?” Martin said. “Yeah, caught on to that part.”

“That’s good,” said the man. “None of the others were aware to this extent, I –”

“What happened to the others?” Martin blurted out.

The man flinched. He turned his face away.

“Surely you’ve seen the roses,” he said.

Martin felt bile rise in his throat. “You mean –?”

“Flowers don’t normally have _eyes_ , do they,” said the man,

voice high and lilting like he was, what, _amused_?

“That’s not funny,” Martin said.

The man sighed. “I suppose not.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“So the eyes,” said Martin finally, unable to let it go, “they’re –?”

“What remains of the previous questers, yes.”

Martin shuddered

and then forced his body to be still.

“So then I’ll be –?”

“No,” the man said quickly. “No, we’ll find a way to stop it.”

“What happens?” Martin asked.

“How does the story go from here?”

The man hmm-ed. “We have until sunset.

That’s when things go … wrong.”

“ _How_ do they go wrong?”

“It’s,” the man fidgeted again.

“There is a curse in this tower. It gets … hungry at night.”

“Right,” said Martin.

It wasn’t the worst timeline.

It was an _awful_ timeline, but it wasn’t the worst.

There was still some time to work with.

“Right?” the man repeated, frowning slightly.

“Yeah,” Martin said. Anxiety crawled across his back,

but there was nothing else to do but keep going,

so that was what he was going to do.

“Anyway, I’m Martin.”

“Ah, Jonathan Sims,” said Jonathan.

He cleared his throat.

“But you can call me Jon.”

Martin gave him half a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Jon.”

The sun lit up the man’s face in a way that was so enchanting

“Oh no,” said Martin.

“What?”

“It’s starting again.”

that Martin could not stop himself

from leaning in to kiss him.

“Oh no,” Martin repeated,

trying to lean forwards and backwards at the same time.

Jon’s eyes tracked the motion.

“Ah,” he said.

“Sorry,” Martin said. His face was on fire.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t actually –”

“I know, Martin,” Jon said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not _fine!_ ” His voice went high-pitched

despite himself, squeaking indignantly upwards.

“I don’t want you to have to –”

But he kept leaning forwards.

“It’s how the story goes,” said Jon.

Martin couldn’t quite read his voice.

Resigned, maybe.

Prepared to suffer through it.

It was _infuriating_ , to think about

Jon in this bed, fully aware of what was happening,

being kissed and kissed and kissed by strangers

who weren’t even aware they didn’t have the choice _not_ to,

it was terrible and cruel and _violating_ ,

and he didn’t want to be part of it,

didn’t want to put Jon in that position –

“Turn your face away,” he said, sharp with urgency. “Please.”

For one tiny moment, Jon stared at him,

wide-eyed,

and then did as Martin had asked.

“Thank you,” Martin said.

He leaned in closer, closer, close.

Jon smelled like old books

and roses

and something like sandalwood.

Martin kissed him

on the top of the head,

as gently as he was allowed.

The moment their lips touched,

the man’s eyes opened.

“Thank you,” he said.

There was a strange overlap,

as though he was watching two Jons speaking at once.

“Don’t thank me,” Martin said.

“Martin,” said Jon.

He smiled,

a tentative little quirk of the mouth

that left Martin a little breathless.

“It’s more than anyone else has been able to do.

Thank you for trying.”

“You have lifted my curse,”

said the man on the bed. “Lay here with me now,

and regain your strength,

and we will leave here in the morning.”

But Jon was saying none of those things.

Instead, he was frowning thunderously at the book in his lap.

Martin watched him warily.

“So,” Martin said. “It looks like we have a bit of leeway?”

“Hardly enough to do anything of _use_ ,” said Jon.

The grumpiness in his voice was –

Cute.

It was cute.

Martin could feel himself start to blush, but then again,

he had barely stopped since he got here.

“How _do_ things go, er, wrong?” he asked.

Jon shuddered.

His face went blank, every emotion folded carefully away.

For a moment,

he didn’t speak.

Then he gave a shuddering,

rattling sigh.

“There is a man

who fell into the book with me,” he said.

“His name was Elias.

We worked together once, but here…”

He sighed.

“He has taken rather a liking

to the place.”

“Or the people?” Martin said.

Jon laughed, a cold-iron sound.

“Yes,” he said. “Or that.”

“Right,” said Martin.

“We were trapped in this book together,” said Jon.

“And I didn’t realise he had begun to change

until it was too late.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said.

Jon rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly _your_ fault.”

 _It’s not about fault_ , Martin thought, but did not say.

He had a feeling Jon might argue.

“He was different, before we came here,” Jon said.

There was a distant look on his face.

“Less of a monster?”

“Well,” said Jon, with a humourless little laugh. “Perhaps.”

Then he went quiet, so quiet

Martin could hardly stand it.

“Any ominously glowing weak spots on him?” he blurted,

breaking the silence.

“Of course not,” said Jon. “Why would it be _easy_?”

Martin sighed. “S’pose that’s my fault, trying to be an optimist.”

He sat down on the bed next to Jon.

The sheets were soft as silk. They slid against his fingers like water.

Martin thought some unkind things about thread count and cost,

and then gently pushed those thoughts aside.

“So we have,” he squinted out of the window, “maybe five hours

until the sun goes down, unless something – unless

something weird happens. Which I guess wouldn’t be _entirely_ out of nowhere here,

because _who knows_ how fairy tale time works?

Other than, er, maybe you, I suppose.

Do you even experience time here? Like, do you _age_?”

“Martin,” Jon said. “Stick to the topic.”

But his eyes were creasing just a little

at the corners.

Martin went warm all over.

“Yes, _Jon_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Can you leave here?”

“The tale or the tower?” Jon asked drily.

“In either case, no. I am almost as trapped here as you are.”

“Okay,” said Martin.

They were trapped,

but there were holes in the net and gaps

between the bars, and they could work with that.

He hadn’t kissed Jon on the mouth, after all,

and fairy tales had their own kind of logic.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” said Jon, like it pained him.

“This story is a tragedy.”

“No, it’s fine,” Martin said, a little distractedly.

He reached into his pack.

“Don’t worry, Jon, I’m pretty genre savvy.”

Jon frowned at him,

opening his mouth to speak.

And so Martin laid down in his embrace.

“This again,” Martin muttered.

He put the pack down.

He laid down on the bed.

He leaned in against Jon’s side despite himself.

Then sighed.

“It’s on a weird sort of delay, isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” said Jon, non-committal.

Up close,

Martin could see that the sides of his face were dotted

with a constellation of perfectly circular scars.

He was also very warm.

If it wasn’t for everything else, Martin thought,

it would be easy to fall asleep like this,

leaning into that heat.

“Sorry about this again,” Martin said.

“It’s fine,” Jon said. He wasn’t looking at him.

“I know lying in bed with someone like me

is hardly anyone’s idea of a good time.”

Martin let out a laugh without meaning to.

“Are you serious? Look at yourself, you’re –”

 _Beautiful_ , he didn’t say, but the damage was already done.

Jon’s mouth went slack; his eyes widened, eyelashes

fanning out like exclamation marks,

and it was all Martin could do

to bite the inside of his cheek

to hold on to his breath and not come across too –

Too _something_.

Might be too late for that one, he supposed.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I, ah,” Jon was stammering. “I, thank you?”

“A-anyway.” Martin rolled away

and pushed himself off the bed. “I’ll put a kettle on.”

“Sorry, you’ll _what?_ ” Jon asked.

“Good for the soul, eases anxiety,” said Martin, pulling

pot and cannisters and cups out of his pack.

He felt a little cold where he’d been lying close to Jon.

“’S what I’ve heard, anyway.

Don’t know if it has the same effect

when it’s fairy tale tea,

but what have we got to lose?”

“Oh, just your eyes,” Jon muttered.

“Well, I’ll do my best not to,” Martin said,

injecting every ounce of cheer into his voice.

He poured water in the pot and stuck it in the fireplace.

He watched the water as it warmed and heated

and began to gently boil.

He didn’t have a plan. Not exactly.

It was just –

A feeling.

The shape of something coming,

like an intricate weave of threads being woven,

like wet leaves clumping together at the bottom of a cup.

He didn’t have a plan, but he thought

he knew what he was doing.

“Sit down,” he told Jon, and gestured

at the floor in front of him.

Jon sat.

Martin set out the cups and filled them.

One cup, he drank himself.

Another he gave to Jon.

The third, he poured out as an offering.

There were tales about the tower, after all,

and most of them were true.

Then they sat very still as time

passed and passed and didn’t pass, dreamlike, in the margins

of the pages of a book

bound in cream-coloured leather.

Then Martin gathered the cups

all back together and returned them to the pack,

along with the cannisters and the pot, now empty.

“Thank you,” he told Jon, and smiled.

Jon was wearing white trousers

and a white shirt,

and he fidgeted with his sleeves like he could wring words out of it.

“I only drank your tea,” he said.

“You drank my tea _with me,_ ” said Martin.

Then night fell upon them

There was no gradual shift of light.

It was just dark, without warning.

The fire went out.

The sky outside the window was abruptly

dotted with stars.

They looked at each other,

eyes wide in the blue shadows of the room.

Martin reached out and took Jon’s hand.

He wasn’t thinking about it. Not exactly.

It was just –

A feeling.

Just something like instinct, maybe.

Jon’s hand was warm in his.

And from deep below, at the base of the tower,

there was an inhuman shriek. Then began

a fast, rhythmic thud-thud-thudding, coming

closer by the moment.

Jon squeezed his hand.

“That’s him,” he said. His jaw was set.

His eyes were unblinking in the dark. “That’s Elias.”

“Not really light-footed, is he?” Martin said stupidly.

Then he had to stop himself

from saying anything else, because

he could feel the nervous babble

bubbling up in his throat, and if

he was going to die here, he’d rather go out

without yammering on about what footwear

worked best for silently traversing a staircase.

Whoever, _what_ ever this Elias was,

he was unlikely to appreciate the advice,

and Jon definitely seemed busy with other things

at the moment.

Then at last the creature burst from the stairwell.

It had the head and wings of an owl and the body of a man,

and every line of its body was lined with eyes.

There was nothing human left in its cold, hard gaze.

“You said you were free of the curse,” Martin cried.

The man who had been sleeping smiled bitterly.

“That was a curse, too. And now it is yours as well.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Jon, who hadn’t spoken them, shook his head a little desperately.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he said, “I never wanted –”

Elias took a heavy step toward them, and then another.

“I know,” Martin said, and squeezed Jon’s hand.

“None of this is your fault.”

Then the creature fell upon them.

Martin lifted his free arm to shield his face.

The world became a flurry

of feather and force and eye, relentless and invasive –

He tried to step back, pushing Jon behind him,

but there was no escape, there was no _space –_

the thing that was Elias seemed to fill every inch of the room,

so oppressive it was difficult to breathe –

Claws raked across his skin, flaring pain like fire,

blooming blood like buds bursting, but it was only half the horror –

Feathers caressed his cheeks, gentle and prickle-sharp at once, and –

Eyes of every colour, moving close

and far and close again, scrutinizing him, pinning him –

And then the thing that was Elias spoke,

and that was worse.

“ **thank you, jon,** ” said the thing that was Elias, in a voice

that did not come from a beak or a human mouth,

vowels and consonants folding up and curling

around each other, sparking with soft static like malfunctioning

electrical equipment and crystal clear diction

all at once, tripping Martin’s every animal instinct

to _runrunrun_.

“ **this one will do nicely.** ”

Jon was squeezing his hand in a death grip,

holding on so tightly it hurt. Martin held on

just as tightly, white-knuckling and rationing his breaths.

“No,” Jon said, voice almost a whisper.

And then, stronger, “no, Elias. Not this one.”

There was a laugh.

It was almost a laugh.

“ **oh, I see** ,” said Elias. “ **this one is different**

 **than all the others you helped lure into my grasp.** ”

Jon bristled, but said nothing.

“ **if you had really wanted to save him, why**

 **did you let him stay here?** ”

“I –” Jon began, but his words were swallowed

by the violent rustle of wings, rising like the wind,

like another awful laugh.

 _That’s not fair_.

Martin tried to say so,

but his mouth filled with feathers,

barbs stiff and sharp and unforgiving.

He couldn’t breathe.

He coughed and coughed and choked on it, falling to his knees,

and Jon was there, Jon was gripping his hand

and gripping his shoulder and shouting his name,

and his field of vision was narrow narrow narrowing, and jon

was yelling martin please martin which was silly of him because

he was _right there_ and

then there was a sound of a different kind –

All around the tower, the vines rose from their scaffoldings.

There were tales about the tower,

and tales about the wood,

and the tales shared a shape and in the shape was a truth,

and the truth was an offering done and repaid in turn

and the turn lay in the twist and tangle of thorn and vine,

of rose and rose and captive eye.

The vines wound themselves around the monster’s limbs and pulled it back,

twisting and braiding, thorns piercing through flesh and tearing

through feathers. The monster gave a terrible, shrieking cry, and then

it went still, disappearing under the weight of greenery and flowers.

All was still.

Then the world began

to unravel

the air

shimmered and warped 

the walls buckled and shud dere d and str etch ed

the story wrapped around them

convulsed and jerked and then

there was a deafening, merciless

t e a r i n g

There was ink, flowing around him like an ocean, like a riptide; it filled his nose and ears and mouth, and he was choking, he was _drowning_ , he was –

Lying flat on the floor of his living room, staring at the ceiling.

He promptly turned over and vomited ink and feathers onto the carpet.

“What,” he managed. It hurt to speak.

This was his living room. The carpet, soaked through with ink, the couch and the telly, the table with its squeaky chair, the bookshelves lined with poetry books and manuals for skills he kept meaning to pick up but never quite got around to actually learning. The sky through the windows, which was a little cloudy and a little sunny and perfectly ordinary. And –

And Jon, lying next to him on the carpet, blinking up at him with a stunned expression.

“Where are we?” he asked, hushed like he was talking in a holy place.

“It’s – it’s home,” Martin said, tearing up. “We’re – this is my flat. We made it.”

“That’s,” said Jon, and then he was laughing, and Martin was laughing, and they were crying all at once, clinging to each other like they might fall back into the story if they let go.

“We made it,” Martin said, wetly, breathlessly.

“We made it,” Jon echoed, grinning. His hair was soaked in ink and plastered to the sides of his face, and his eyes were so bright –

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asked, and then his brain kicked back in. “Sorry, sorry, that was weird.”

“No, I,” Jon said. He cleared his throat. His cheeks darkened. “You can, ah, you can kiss me.”

So Martin did.

-

Afterwards, Martin put on a pot of Yorkshire tea (£2.99 for a pack of eighty bags at Tesco’s, because there was a time for posh tea and there was a time for _strong_ tea, and this was definitely the latter,) and together they rolled up the carpet and threw it out. The book was nowhere to be found, but Martin couldn't find it in himself to care. Instead, he poured two cups of tea and pulled out an unopened pack of hobnobs from the pantry. Then they collapsed on the sofa and watched Pointless until they fell asleep, and when they woke up it was raining outside and Jon's head was resting on Martin's chest and his hair got in Martin's mouth and Martin's back hurt from sleeping on the couch.

Later, they would have to talk about what had happened, and what they would do next.

Later, Martin would have to go down and open the shop and avoid telling Sasha any of this.

Later.

For now, he pulled Jon closer - Jon mumbled sleepy nonsense in his ear - and closed his eyes and took a moment, finally, to breathe easy.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @aibari on [tumblr](https://aibari.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aibari)!


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